


if I let you come hold me

by GreenyLove



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Casual Sex, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Getting Together, Growing Up, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, PIV Sex, POV Tsukishima Kei, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Male Character, Trans Tsukishima Kei, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vaginal Fingering, Wet & Messy, afab/amab language, don't think too hard about when they put on the condom just trust that it happens, trans work by trans author, yeah that's right we got it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenyLove/pseuds/GreenyLove
Summary: If their midnight encounters were anything more than what they are, Kei would call things off. But as it stands, their hookups begin when they spy each other at one of the clubs they both frequent. Kuroo buys him a drink, Kei mocks his tastes and refuses to drink it. Ten minutes of ignoring each other, twenty minutes of bickering, and then Kei makes prolonged eye contact and touches Kuroo’s arm, and Kuroo’s smile gains a hungry tilt.(In which Kuroo and Tsukishima reunite after high school, go on a date, talk about their feelings, fall in love, and have hot, emotional sex. Just not in that exact order.)
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Yamaguchi Tadashi, Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 39
Kudos: 303





	if I let you come hold me

**Author's Note:**

> happy 402! please take this away from me! 
> 
> some notes and disclaimers:  
> (*) dubcon tag is there because while Kuroo and Tsukishima are both enthusiastically consenting adults, they are also drunk during some of their sexual encounters.  
> (*) I use a mix of afab/amab language for Tsukishima’s body because that’s the same blend I use for myself.  
> (*) I also think it’s important to note (in these stressful times) that while Tsukishima is trans and his transness impacts/informs his lived experiences, this fic is very light on trans trauma, i.e. none of Tsukishima’s angst or emotional suffering is because he is trans. In this AU everyone respects trans people because that should not be a statement that requires an AU but here we are! respect trans people! *peace sign*
> 
> enjoy!

Kei knows, logically, that going home with Kuroo Tetsurou is a terrible idea. 

It’s a terrible idea the first time, when they run into each other in the middle of Roppongi for the first time in four years. The club lights paint Kuroo in neon relief, and he looks dangerous, like a predator attracting its unsuspecting prey with bright, toxic colors. But Kei is not unsuspecting nor is he prey. He matches Kuroo, quip for quip, shot for shot, until Kuroo’s smirk grows so fucking gleeful Kei has to erase it with his mouth.

Kei isn’t too experienced in bed but he knows what he’s getting into when he follows Kuroo home. Kuroo shoves him against his apartment door and flips the deadbolt by his hip and then his hands are _all over._

In his hair. Peeling his shirt away from his stomach. Following the seam of his tight, tight jeans down his ass and between his legs, where the heel of his palm can press up and feel where Kei is burning. 

“Can you keep up, Tsukki?” Kuroo purrs, lips vibrating against the sensitive spot just below his ear. 

Kei shoves him away and growls, “Stop talking and fuck me,” and Kuroo does only one of those things because Kuroo never follows directions. 

He throws Kei on the couch, climbs on top of him and yanks off his pants and spews such garbage, such absolute filth — _goddamn Tsukki, look at you, didn’t think these legs could get any longer, let’s see how far they can stretch, fuck, look how wet you are, like a goddam sin, baby, pull your knees back for me, just like that, wanna see you take my dick_ — until Kei bites his shoulder, viciously hard. Kuroo groans and fucks into him, fucks him deep like it’s the most satisfying thing that has ever happened. 

And then offers him a damp cloth, a pat on the back and money for a cab, like plowing him into the couch cushions meant nothing at all. 

It continues to be a terrible idea the second time, and the third time. It’s never planned, they never exchange numbers — but by the fifth time, Kei acknowledges that it’s better not to anticipate Kuroo Tetsurou. 

If their midnight encounters were anything more than what they are, Kei would call things off. But as it stands, their hookups begin when they spy each other at one of the clubs they both frequent. Kuroo buys him a drink, Kei mocks his tastes and refuses to drink it. Ten minutes of ignoring each other, twenty minutes of bickering, and then Kei makes prolonged eye contact and touches Kuroo’s arm, and Kuroo’s smile gains a hungry tilt. 

And then Kei finds himself alone with Kuroo, in the apartment where Kei has now fucked four times. 

The apartment he couldn’t find in broad daylight, because he’s too busy bruising Kuroo’s mouth to pay attention in the cab. He knows it’s on the sixth floor because he always bitches about the stairs, and Kuroo always threatens to carry him, pinches his ass and herds him to the next landing. 

The apartment that he doesn’t know, on the couch that he knows intimately. The previous four times were hurried, in the sense that Kei and Kuroo were here, on the couch, for the singular purpose of gratifying orgasms. Anything that doesn’t directly contribute to orgasms is skipped. 

The fifth time, he’s on Kuroo’s lap when Kuroo grabs his shirt. Instead of stripping it off, Kuroo twists it around his elbows, trapping his arms against his back. “So pretty, Tsukki,” he hums against Kei’s shoulder, nosing up into his hair. “Gonna turn you red. Gonna make you cry.” 

Kei _hates_ the dirty talk, hates how it liquifies him. Before he can wrestle himself free, scratch his nails down Kuroo’s back in the way that usually makes him get the fuck on with things, Kuroo kisses his chest. Trawls his tongue along his surgery scars. The skin is sensitive; the hot drag of Kuroo’s mouth makes him shiver. 

The fifth time, Kuroo slides him onto his cock and holds him here, one hand anchored in the twisted-up shirt, the other in his hair, exposing his neck. Kei growls, wants to roll his hips but his balance is off. 

“Move.” 

Kuroo chuckles. “No.” 

“Let me move,” Kei demands — it’s not begging if he’s mad about it, right? “Let me ride you.” 

“Don’t think I will, darlin’,” Kuroo drawls, voice vibrating against his chest. Kei can’t look, not with his neck stretched at this angle, but he feels it when Kuroo mouths across his collarbones. “I think I’ll keep you right here, nice and full, until I’m ready.” 

“You feel plenty ready,” Kei snaps, clenching down on the thick dick spreading him open, just to prove his point. 

Kuroo only laughs, lips curling into that stupid devious grin. “Oh no, sweet thing. I’m just getting started.” 

The fifth time...takes longer. 

Kuroo keeps Kei on his lap and devours his neck, his shoulders, his chest. That sly mouth covers him in hickeys, in damp red welts, in impressions of teeth. It stings, it leaves him feeling clammy where spit dries in the conditioned air. Kei twists and shakes and spits half-formed threats at Kuroo but the bastard is relentless. Inflammation burns, sinks from the surface of his skin all the way down to his core. 

Kei just wants to come, just wants some fucking relief. He thinks he tells Kuroo as much, and Kuroo tongues his nipple and laughs when Kei moans. 

It feels like hours have passed by the time Kuroo leans back, surveying the damage. A thumb teases his swollen nipple, traces the discoloration. “Shit, Tsukki,” he breathes, “you look good like this.” 

Kei glares, feels absolutely livid. His cunt is soaked. His pelvic muscles are wound so tight, from clenching down, from trying to goad Kuroo into giving him more. “Fuck me or I’m leaving.” 

A broad, warm hand smoothes down his back. “I turned you red. Remember what comes next?” 

Kei is distracted by Kuroo’s hands, gently freeing his arms from his shirt. The wrinkled garment falls somewhere on the floor behind them. Thankfully, it was a rhetorical question. 

“I’m gonna make you cry.” 

It doesn’t take Kei long to understand why his arms are free: so he can hang on. 

The first roll of Kuroo’s hips unravels him. It isn’t an especially hard thrust, but after so long with just the _presence_ of cock inside him, the glide out, the pressure of reentry is too much, too good. 

But this is it, this is exactly what he wanted, so Kei digs his nails into the meat of Kuroo’s shoulders and fucks him back. 

The wet smack of Kei’s sex again Kuroo’s lap is obscene. Kuroo grabs his thighs, helps him bounce, matches his pace and _fuck,_ Kei isn’t going to last. He grits his teeth and groans when he comes. All the tension in his belly twists up and burns, melts into sweet relief. 

Kuroo lets him slump against his chest but doesn’t let him stop. 

“Fucking hell, baby,” he growls, “you get so tight when you come. Gonna give me another?” 

Kei tries to catch his breath, tries to suck the drool back into his mouth. “Fuck you.”

“Tryin’,” Kuroo whines. 

Soon, Kuroo stops making Kei match his thrusts — just holds him steady and snaps his hips up into his stretched, dripping pussy. The pace is unrelenting. It fills him so good, sparks against his pleasure spot and kindles a new fire in Kei’s gut. He burns hot, like he must be red and sweaty all over. Palms slip on Kuroo’s chest; Kei wants to sit up, wants to silence Kuroo’s filthy groans, wants to bite him back, but he’s shaking too bad. He can’t make his mouth work. 

Kuroo’s mouth works just fine. He starts talking, because he never truly shuts up. 

“So needy,” he croons, pleasure-drunk, slurring his words, “feels so good — ah, _fuck._ Have you had enough yet?” 

Kei can’t tell if he’s crying. His whole body is an exposed wire, feverish with need. “Fuck, fuck, fuck — _Kuroo!”_

 _“Yes.”_

Kei comes again, barely muffling his yell in the crook of Kuroo’s neck. He boils. He might lose feeling in his legs. Kuroo buries himself balls deep, grinding up, up, until he snarls like his orgasm is ripped out of him. Kei can feel him, pulsing, filling the condom with heat. 

The apartment is grey and quiet as they cool down. 

It takes a moment for Kei’s thoughts to reassemble. How long has he been here? What time is it? This is uncharted territory for their trysts. While their romps always leave him breathless and sated, they never exhaust him. He never doubts his ability to walk out the door without stumbling. 

This is the part where Kei would stay the night, if they were lovers instead of — this. 

“Damn, we outdid ourselves!” Kuroo shifts beneath him, curls an arm around his waist and helps them both sit up. His softened dick slips out, and Kei gingerly slides off his lap so he can take care of the condom. “You need a shower?” 

“No,” Kei says curtly. With a fortifying breath, he stands, not proud of how watery his knees feel. 

The fifth time, Kuroo watches him get dressed with a softness to the edge of his mouth. He stays slumped on the couch, head against the backrest, barely bothering to tug his own jeans up around his slickened thighs. He doesn’t offer a rag, or a bottled water, or make sex puns. Kei needs to get out of this room immediately. 

“See you later,” he mumbles, shoving his feet into his boots without bothering to redo the laces. 

Kuroo’s eyes are half-lidded and bright. “Bye, Tsukki.” 

Kei feels them on his back long after the door shuts. 

  
  


# 

  
  


It’s been four years. The last time Kei spoke to Kuroo, it was via text message. 

Kei is a third year at Karasuno. Yamaguchi is captain and so good at it, supportive and constructive and determined. He tells his yearmates that he would understand if none of them want to stay past Interhigh — entrance exams are no joke, right? Kei thinks that was an unnecessary conversation. Hinata and Kageyama will stay because they’re freaks. Yachi will stay because fundraising for the team is actually excellent for her graphic design portfolio. And Kei stays because he hates to leave something unfinished. 

And he might have promised a certain provocative asshole — 

Kuroo Tetsurou is off at college. One of the same colleges Kei applied for, known for their sciences. They’ve never been close enough to hang out, but they communicate on and off. Mostly congratulatory texts when the crows win, or teasing but polite messages on birthdays and holidays. They aren’t friends, but Kuroo feels constantly in his orbit, even though it’s been years since they shared the court. 

But Kei can still remember facing him across the net, during that dumpster battle. The knife-edge feeling of those sharp grey eyes evaluating his plays. Can think even further back, to nights in a gym in Tokyo, cicadas loud through the open doors. Kuroo grabbing his arm and pressing their palms together, demonstrating through touch what he means by _all the way through your fingers._

They aren’t friends but Kei feels like maybe, if they are both at the same college, maybe — 

When he gets his acceptance packet, he texts Kuroo. 

Kuroo texts back to haltingly explain that actually, he is going to America. Studying abroad, for an entire year. 

_Catch you later, Tsukki._

And then nothing. Gone. 

It shuts Kei down slowly. He moves to Tokyo but Kuroo isn’t _there_. He collects everything he felt for Kuroo, every memory, and packs it into a box in his heart, until his insides feel scraped out and numb. 

When his roommate invites him along to volleyball tryouts, Kei declines. 

  
  


#

  
  


If they were anything more than fuck buddies, Kei would call things off. 

There is a practicality to keeping this thing between them undefined. Relationships have expectations, rules, risks. Kei doesn’t want that. He wants exactly this: his own life in the daytime, where he can focus on university and his upcoming research seminar and meeting Yamaguchi at the gym. And some nights, but not every night, he can show up at a bar in Roppongi, and if Kuroo is there, they can indulge in only what they are willing to share. Nothing more, nothing less. No need to unpack anything, no need to unbury the past.

It’s just sex. It’s exactly what Kei prefers. He can stop whenever he wants. 

It’s uncomplicated. He’s satisfied with that. 

  
  


#

  
  


It becomes complicated when the fall semester starts and Kuroo walks into his anthropology classroom.

At first, Kei thinks he must be lost. This is the social sciences building, not the natural sciences. But Kuroo moves with the same easy confidence he always does, sliding into an open desk near the door less than a minute before class begins like he planned it that way. 

The professor passes out the syllabus. Kuroo doesn’t leave. This is actually happening. 

Kei knows, logically, that he and Kuroo attend the same university. But it’s so jarring, seeing Kuroo in jeans and a henley instead of his tight dark club attire. Under humming fluorescent instead of smoky orange bar lighting or flashy neon strobes. 

He only half listens to the professor, moving robotically through the syllabus. Kei underlines a few due dates, makes a note to check out the books he needs for the research paper soon — honors student status allows him to borrow materials for the entire academic year, a perk he shamelessly abuses. He can’t completely block out Kuroo but he only catches himself staring once, when the older man drops his pen and Kei’s eyes are drawn to the golden skin exposed when Kuroo’s shirt rides up his back. 

Class ends and Kei doesn’t actively avoid Kuroo. That would send the wrong message — like he’s nervous, or embarrassed. By the time he packs his pencil case and slings his bag over his shoulder, Kuroo is gone. Kei is not relieved nor is he distressed. He is not anything, because he doesn’t care. 

He steps into the hallways and Kuroo is waiting for him, leaning against the wall by the water fountain like the bad boy heartthrob in every teen sitcom ever filmed. 

“What are the odds, you and me sharing a class?” he remarks. Kei doesn’t wait for him. Kuroo falls easily into step next to him. “Are you going to help me study, Tsukki?” 

Kei shoots him an unimpressed look. “Why would I do that?” 

“This is your major, isn’t it?” 

“If it’s _not_ in your major, why did you take Intro to Biological Anthropology?” he counters. 

Kuroo holds open the door to the stairwell, takes the steps two at a time until he catches back up. “It counts as a core credit. It’s actually the only core social science credit without a lab component.” 

“You’re a chemistry major.” He isn’t sure how he knows that. Did he see a stack of textbooks on his table? 

Kuroo nods, entirely too pleased. “Exactly! I’m full up on labs.” 

Again, he beats Kei to the door, the brass crash bar squeaking in old age as he shoves it open. Outside it’s sunny, the sidewalks still damp from the recent rain showers. 

Kei expects Kuroo to excuse himself, but he stays beside him, stretching his arms above his head and glancing at Kei out of the corner of his eye. “We should study together. You don’t actually have to tutor me.” 

“I was never going to tutor you,” Kei points out. The fact that he avoided answering the first part of Kuroo’s statement isn’t lost on him, and judging by his smirk, it isn’t lost on Kuroo either.

He drops his arms, slides his hands in his pockets. “If you wanted to avoid plebeians like me, why didn’t you take a different section? Surely they have one for majors only.” 

“They do,” Kei concedes, nose wrinkling in distaste, “but it’s at 8:00 AM.” 

Kuroo winces. “Yikes.” 

“Hmm.” 

When they reach the crosswalk, Kei hesitates. He has a long window between anthropology and his late afternoon language class. Usually, he gets lunch at the student union and hunts down an empty bench or armchair where he can put on his headphones and block out the world for a few hours. He should nod farewell, turn right, and get on with his day. But the crosswalk light is red, and Kuroo waits, and Kei waits too.

He doesn’t want to spend time with Kuroo, but his body is...conditioned. His body knows Kuroo’s body, and anticipates a certain chain of events when he looks at Kuroo and Kuroo looks back. An unfortunate, distracting magnetism. 

Kuroo’s body, which is still...physically conditioned. Has he ever seen him with a gym bag? Ever paid attention to the state of his calluses? He wants to ask Kuroo if he still plays, but how could he possibly bring that up without inviting questions _he_ doesn’t want to answer? 

A long finger flicks his forehead. Kei sputters, “Hey!” 

“Don’t think too hard there, Tsukki,” Kuroo says with an easy grin. The light at the crosswalk changes, and Kuroo steps into the street. He waves at Kei over his shoulder as he goes. “Catch you later. Hit me up if you’re ever at the library.”

“You know where the library is?” 

Kuroo laughs, flips him off, before a truck rumbles through the street between them. When it passes, Kuroo’s turned away, hands in his pockets, rooster hair glossy black in the midday sun. Kei watches him until he turns the corner, then puts on his headphones as he walks the opposite direction, cranking up the volume until it overwhelms the noise in his head. 

  
  


#

  
  


Fall semester pulls no punches. Not that Kei was ever under any delusions that college was going to be some kind of joyride. He chose an academically rigorous program and he doesn’t regret it. But the summer nights where he can escape into the heart of the city, forget his stress in the anonymity of a dimly lit club, are gone. At least for a while. At least until he gets a handle on himself again. 

The one flaw in his thinking: he cannot anticipate Kuroo Tetsurou. 

Turns out, Kuroo does know where the library is. 

The first time he finds Kei, Yamaguchi and Yachi are there too. Kuroo saunters up their table and has the audacity to wink at him, resting a hand on the back of his chair. 

“Oh ho, three out of the five Karasuno baby crows?” Kuroo says, grinning at a stunned Yamaguchi. Yachi can’t figure out what to do with her hands. “Heartwarming to see the flock stick together. I’m sure things are much calmer with the little monsters off on their own, too.” 

Yachi recovers first. “Oh, we’re so proud of Kageyama-kun and Shouyou.” 

“They would have hated university,” Yamaguchi adds. “If Tsukki and Yacchan hadn’t tutored them, I’m not sure they would have finished high school.” 

Kei clenches his pencil and resists the urge to knock that proprietary hand off his chair. “It does require a lot of studying, which we are in the middle of,” he grits out, glaring at Kuroo. He’s dressed like he came from the gym: track packs and an old Nekoma shirt, grey flannel tied around his waist. His hair looks damp but still defies gravity, sticking up in the back where his natural wave goes wild. He’s more relaxed than Kei has ever seen him. 

Kei sits stiffly on the edge of his seat. 

“Of course, of course,” Kuroo says easily. “Audacious of me to interrupt your scholarly pursuits. Believe it or not, I came to do some studying of my own.” 

“G-Good luck!” Yachi chirps. 

Kuroo laughs, delighted, and gives the table a cheeky wave before strolling away. If Kei watches him go, it’s only to make sure he goes far enough. There are boundaries. There is a distance to be maintained. 

So he watches Kuroo find an empty table halfway across the floor, and sling his bag down, and pull out actual books and actual notes, a serious expression collecting on his face. Focused, that almost metallic quality in his eyes that Kei can feel from here, just like he gets when they —

A foot lightly nudges his shin. “You can go sit with him if you want.” 

Kei swivels his gaze to one very innocent Yamaguchi. “I don’t want to.” 

The blonde’s glare could wither plants but Yamaguchi has years and years of immunity, and only shrugs. “It’s just a suggestion.” 

There is an implied _so why are you so upset about it_ that Kei absolutely is not going to acknowledge. Schooling his face back into indifference, he turns to Yachi and asks politely if she got the same answer for number ten in their calculus set. Yamaguchi gives Kei a disapproving look, like they are absolutely not finished with this conversation, and Kei bites back a sigh. 

He wants to avoid explaining any of this to his friends. The nature of his situation with Kuroo is that there should never be anything that warrants explanation. With any luck, Kuroo will read the fucking room and leave Kei alone unless _they_ are alone. 

Technically, Kei gets his wish. The second time Kuroo finds him in the library, they are alone. 

Yamaguchi is late. Kei sits at their usual table, restlessly shuffling through the notes that need revision, when Kuroo moseys up, smoothie in hand, and sits down across from him. 

“No,” Kei says flatly. 

Eyes twinkling, Kuroo holds up a placating hand. “Don’t fret, I’ll leave when Freckles gets here.” 

“Or,” Kei muses, pointing with his pencil, “you could leave now.” 

Kuroo loudly slurps his smoothie, adjusting his straw to chase down the last dregs. He sets the empty cup on the table and leans forward on his elbows. “But Tsukki, I’ve hardly seen you around lately.”

There is a particularly to the way he says _around_. It makes Kei stiffen, side eye students at other tables. Like there must be a blinking sign above his head, disclosing his most personal habits to the entire second floor. 

“I’m a little busy.” He narrows his eyes and gestures to all the papers scattered between them. “This is twice the course load of summer semester. I can’t spend every weekend _out_.” 

Kuroo’s eyebrows shoot up. “Impressive, Tsukki. But you know I’m not just talking about —”

“Sorry I’m late!” Yamaguchi gushes, jogging up to the table. A pinkish blush creeps up his cheekbones; he fiddles with his hands in a way Kei hasn’t seen since second year when his disasterously bisexual best friend had a brief but intense crush on Yachi. 

The source of his sheepishness appears moments behind him, in the stocky form of one Iwaizumi Hajime. The Seijoh alumnus nods politely to Kei and then eyes Kuroo, mouth twitching. “Kuroo.” 

“Iwaizumi. Pleasure as always.” 

Yamaguchi clears his throat and winces. “Tsukki, sorry for the short notice, but I ran into Ha — _ha ha,_ so funny that I ran into Iwaizumi! Downstairs! And he offered to help with my English composition, since he’s better at English.” 

Kei tenses. He knows where this is going, reaches out and shoves his papers into smaller piles, tries to make the table look open and inviting. “That’s fine, I don’t mind — ”

“No, I don’t want to bother you,” Yamaguchi says. 

Elbowing him gently, Iwaizumi nods towards the elevator. “I reserved a study room on Three. We can work there.”

Yamaguchi beams at him, nervously tucking a loose hair behind his ear. “Good thinking. I’ll text you later, Tsukki!” 

He gives his stony-faced blond friend a final apologetic wave before hurrying off towards the safety of the elevators. Iwaizumi’s eyes linger on the freckled man’s retreating form, mouth twitching again. The former ace bows to Tsukki and smirks at Kuroo. 

“See you at the gym, lightweight.” 

Kuroo’s returning grin is near feral. “Can’t wait, deadlift.” 

Kei watches Iwaizumi leave, glancing between his bulky retreating form and Kuroo’s comparatively...lean build. “You go to the gym?” 

A snort. “Iwaizumi works out with Bokuto and Sawamura. I go for the _view.”_

That startles a laugh out of Kei, a bright noise that gets mangled in his mouth as he tries to keep it behind his teeth. “Crude,” he says dismissively, spreading his notes back out. “Stay if you want, but don’t bother me.” 

Surprise flashes across Kuroo’s face, but for once he doesn’t argue. Just smiles, and unloads his own materials. His handwriting is oddly neat. Not that Kei is looking. He itches to put on his headphones, but he wouldn’t, if it was Yamaguchi and Yachi across from him instead of his...fuck buddy. At no point in the unusual sequence of their relationship had they ever been friends. The kind who met up and studied or shared a meal or talked about their days. Nothing in Kei’s mental list of expectations and rules prepared him to be friends with Kuroo. That comes too close to the line. 

Well, at least they don’t have to talk, Kei muses. Personally, he quite excels at cold shouldering. 

Their studious silence lasts ten minutes. Then Kuroo yawns and flips to a page in a familiar textbook — for their shared anthropology class. He points to a photo of an extinct hominin. “Do you think our primitive ancestors had any good pick up lines?” 

Kei stares at his own work. 

“Like, did they lope up to each other and go,” he begins, pitching his voice deeper, _“hey babe, I really dig the way you locomote bipedally.”_

Kei stares so hard his eyes water. 

_“Let’s use our tools for ritualistic purposes ~”_

Kei growls, slamming his hand on the table and yanking Kuroo’s textbook towards him. “This is a diagram of _Australopithecus._ Their linguistic skills were likely not any more developed than great apes. If any proto-humans possessed the ability to use pick up lines, it would be in the kind of symbolic communication, absolutely no earlier in the evolutionary chain than _Homo habilis_ — ”

A cackling laugh erupts from Kuroo. “Tsukki-sensei is so knowledgeable!” 

“If you’re going to make awful jokes, at least get the facts right. Did you even do the reading?” Kei demands. The goading curl of Kuroo’s mouth implies that even if he had, this conversation wouldn’t change. 

“Teach me more, Tsukki-sensei!” he simpers, flipping deeper into the chapter. Another diagram fills the page and Kuroo’s eyes widen, finger slapping down on the beginning of a paragraph. “Oh my god, is that one really called _Homo erectus?”_

Kei presses his face into his hands. “Go back to your lab.” 

“You would miss me.” 

He slips down onto his elbows, response muffled by his own arms as they wrap around his head. “Go spill acid on yourself.” 

“Tsukki.” Kuroo’s tone is stern, admonishing. “Lab safety is very important to me.” 

Kei only grunts in response. Pressure builds in the back of his neck, curling around his scalp to pulse like a heartbeat behind his eyes. The noise of the library converges: the chatter at the reference desk, the buzz from the floor below as students hover around the print stations, the clack of keyboards. Kei thinks longingly of his dorm, and then of another kind of escape, where he could replace this commotion with pounding music, the slam of shot glasses, the rasp of bodies jumping together. 

A hand gently touches his arm. “You okay?” Kuroo’s voice is hushed, but Kei zeroes in on it. Kuroo could whisper from across the building and Kei thinks he would hear it. 

Lifting his face just enough to fix his glasses and glance at Kuroo through his unruly bangs, Kei sighs. “I wish I had time. To go out.” His smile is humorless. “I could use a drink.” 

Kuroo’s expression is impossible to read. Just for a moment, and then he leans back in his chair, taps his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t have anything stronger than water...but there is a storage closet on the fourth floor.” 

His heartbeat picks up. He keeps his face neutral. “Is there?” 

“Sure is. It’s dark. It locks.” 

Logically, Kei knows it’s a terrible idea to follow Kuroo Tetsurou, and yet — 

“Lead the way.” 

  
  


#

  
  


The fourth floor is the silent study floor. No talking, headphones only. There are tables cordoned off, reserved specifically for athletes and honors society students who need to log a specific amount of study hours per week to keep their grades in line. No one spares the pair a second glance as they tiptoe through stacks of old, musty periodicals. 

Kuroo stops before a nondescript door and uses his student ID to pop the lock. The noise it makes is too loud in the tense atmosphere, but there’s no one around in this corner to notice as they both slip inside. 

As promised, it is dark. Kuroo locks the door behind them. 

Inside, it smells overpoweringly like lemon-scented cleaning products and mildew. There are metal shelves, a dried out mop sink, an abandoned rolling step stool. The room is untouched but not completely untended. 

Kuroo must sense Kei’s curiosity, because he chuckles and says, “The library used to maintain its own janitorial staff, before the university consolidated duties. This room got scrubbed down and hasn’t been assigned a new purpose. Hardly anyone comes up here.” 

“They personally reassure you when you ask for a hookup spot?” Kei deadpans. 

“I’ve got friends on the circ staff. Remember Shibayama?” 

Faintly, Kei can barely recall a nervous teen with thick eyebrows. Not Nekoma’s starting libero, but a second string. “I can picture him.” 

“He works downstairs.” Kuroo shrugs. He messed with something on the shelves, a carton Kei can’t identify in the faint amounts of yellow light streaking in from under the door. “And it’s not a hookup spot. Unless you want it to be?” 

Those sly eyes watch him. Kei clenches his jaw. He blushes but refuses to lose their staring contest. “I just want my headache to go away.” 

Kuroo closes the gap between them, hands finding his waist, slipping under the hem of his button up. “Do you want some help with that?” 

Kei exhales. “Stop asking so many questions.” 

“Hey.” A hand grabs his chin, forces their eyes to meet, grey on gold. “Consent is sexy. It matters to me that you want to do this.” To Kei’s surprise, Kuroo leans forward, rubs his nose along Kei’s shoulder. 

“It matters to me that you feel good. I’m sorry I haven’t been the best at checking in.” 

Something warm swirls through his chest. Has anyone ever apologized for that before? Is that a genuine thing people do? Kei clears his throat, voice unsteady. “It’s fine. It’s all been fine.” 

“Just fine?” 

“If you’re worried about your reputation, do something.” 

Kuroo’s laugh rumbles in his chest. “So bossy.” The nose on his shoulder reaches his ear. Lips gently kiss the curl, mouth at the lobe. “Tsukki, I really want to kiss you.”

“Fine.” 

The mouth leaves as Kuroo draws back far enough to pout at him. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so worried if you gave more enthusiastic feedback,” Kuroo huffs, eyes narrowed. 

Kei swallows against his panic. He doesn’t know how to do this sober. A dozen snarky comebacks fly through his mind but instead he snatches Kuroo by the collar and pulls him close enough to kiss. 

This, at least, is easy for him. 

Kuroo tastes like strawberries and mangos and coconut milk. Flavors slip into his mouth and Kei hums, licking at Kuroo’s lips, at the corner of his mouth where the skin is still tacky with dried sugar. Kuroo’s hands squeeze his waist, backing him up against the bare wall behind them. His kisses are patient, a warm rub of lips, like he is perfectly content to take his time. Kei growls, pushes into his mouth, but Kuroo keeps a firm hand on his jaw. Slows him down, keeps him at pace. 

“Shhh, baby,” he soothes, kissing Kei’s cupid’s bow, his bottom lip, the tip of his chin, “just let me take care of things.” 

When Kei tries to talk back, Kuroo kisses him quiet, softly drinks down all his protests until Kei feels drunk off his mouth. The taste of fruit fades until it’s just spit, just spit and tongues and _Kuroo._ Hands pet down his sides, feeling out his hip bones through his jeans. Kei rolls forward, pushes their stomachs together, wanting more of that firm body against him. 

Their lips peel apart. Kuroo’s voice is a raspy murmur. “How’s your head?” 

“‘S fine,” Kei slurs. His brain feels melty, his mouth feels swollen, hands clumsy where they fiddle with Kuroo’s shirt sleeves. 

A hot mouth finds his neck, nips at his Adam’s apple. Kei is off-center, hot behind the eyes. He’s thankful that the light is off and that Kuroo makes no move to turn it on. 

“Tsukki.” With a soft thud, Kuroo settles on his knees, sits back on his ankles. He tugs up Kei’s shirt and kisses the mole on his hip. “Can I blow you?” 

His heart skips. “If you want.” 

Kuroo’s head rests against his thigh. His exhale heats his skin, warm and muggy through the denim. “What do you want, Tsukki? I want to know what you want.” 

Sweat gathers on the back of his knees. Kei shakes, wants to grab his bag and run and not stop until he’s back home in Miyagi. But if he runs, Kuroo will follow him, and Kei will have to explain. Or, Kuroo will watch him go, and Kei will be left with unfinished sentences dying in his chest. Both possibilities scare him. Sends him stomach lurching. He needs to stay here, in this closet with Kuroo on his knees and the boundaries between them simple. 

He steadies his breath, looks down at Kuroo. “I want your mouth,” he says, detached, popping the button of his jeans, “to do something useful.” 

There’s a pause, where Kuroo breathes in and breathes out in equal measure. Then he swats away Kei’s hands, drags down the zipper himself. “Fucking hell, Tsukki.” 

Kei’s response turns into a groan as clever fingers tug open his pants. Kissing and petting left him just horny enough to feel damp and twitchy in his clothes. His hips jump when Kuroo strokes the front of his boxers, fondling the growing bulge before venturing lower to test the give of fabric over where Kei is hot and leaky. Slick blooms under his fingers. 

Kei nearly shouts when Kuroo dives forward. Inhaling deeply, Kuroo moans shamelessly as he nudges along the ridge of his swollen dick. His tongue feels along his front, hunting for that musky wetness, leaving his own spit behind. 

“You smell so fucking good,” Kuroo murmurs, hands pressing deeper into Kei’s pants, around his thighs, grazing his ass in a way that makes him buck forward against that grinning mouth. “Tell me what you like. I was too drunk the last time we did this.” 

Kei remembers: they flirted in public for longer than usual, and by the time they reached the privacy of Kuroo’s apartment they were ravenous for each other’s bare skin. Too keyed up to spend longer than a few minutes in prep, Kuroo between his legs, working him open with fingers and tongue before Kei kicked him and Kuroo retaliated by pinning his thighs apart and refusing to give him more than the tip until he apologized — 

“Tsukki.” Kuroo’s singsong whisper brings him back. “Answer me, sweetheart.” 

He screws his eyes shut, face hot. One hand leaves the wall and carefully reaches down, traces a fingertip over his own erection. “This is sensitive. It grows but it won’t get much bigger than this.” His voice catches, heart beating too fast. “It feels good when you suck it.” 

Kuroo kisses his fingertips. “Can’t wait. You are so sexy, Tsukki, it’s criminal.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Kuroo ignores him. “Do you like when I use my fingers? Inside you?” A gentle touch to his folds, petaling open under the caress. 

The hand finds that nest of wild hair instead, tightening into a fist. “When have I ever let you do something I don’t like? Just...do it,” he orders, proud of the way his voice doesn’t falter, “and if you suck at it, I’ll leave.” 

“Hmm, I’ll be sucking at _something_ …” 

Kei shoves him away, grabs at his zipper with a huff. Kuroo recovers quickly, tugs his hands off his pants. “Sorry, sorry,” he snickers, unrepentant. He moves Kei’s hands back to his head, guiding his fingers back into the rooster nest. “You should keep holding my hair, though. I like that.” 

The atmosphere changes, then. Slows down. Kuroo’s eyes glint, predacious in the scant amount of light. There’s that sharpness again, that focus, but this time instead of class notes it’s directed between Kei’s legs. His gaze is tangible, makes his dick throb. 

Kuroo’s movements aren’t slow but they are sensual. Somehow his mouth is everywhere, exhaling hotly over his bulge and licking through the thin trail of golden hair on his lower abs, kissing his thighs as hands slide his jeans and boxers down to his knees. Kei has never received oral while standing up but logistically it’s probably easier for the giving party if the receiver can properly spread their legs, but when Kei tries to help shimmy his bottoms all the way off, Kuroo stops him. 

“Now, now, Tsukki,” Kuroo tuts. He licks his lips; it’s ridiculous and salacious and should not make Kei want to whine. Kuroo leans forward, damp lips methodically kissing across his mons, inhaling deeply against the trimmed, pale blonde curls. “Next time, we can strip you bare. I’d love that, love to lay you out and see how many times you can come.” 

His mouth is so, so frustratingly close to where Kei’s engorged dick sticks out from beneath its hood. “That could take a while. You’ll get bored.” 

Was that insulting? He means for that to sound insulting, but he can’t catch his breath and his voice cracks like it used to when he first started taking hormones. Instead of disparaging Kuroo’s ability to satisfy him, it sounds like a plea. 

Kuroo’s bitten-off moan is rough, his hands clenching where they wrap around the back of Kei’s thighs. “Fuck, don’t test me, baby.” A wet, wicked tongue spills out of his mouth and licks a hot stripe up Kei’s folds, laving over his dick. “I could feast on you for hours.” 

“We don’t have hours.” Kei tugs meaningfully on that tousled, _soft_ black hair. 

“Then I better get to work.” 

_Finally_ , Kei wants to snap, but his brain scrambles when Kuroo leans back in and seals his mouth around Kei’s straining erection. The sudden heat is overwhelming, the plush softness of Kuroo’s lips mouthing against the base. Testosterone therapy was kind to Kei in regards to bottom growth: there’s two and a half inches of blood-swollen, needy flesh currently surrounded by Kuroo’s talented mouth. 

Kei bites his palm. He’s a naturally reserved guy; it’s not usually hard to keep quiet when he gets off on his own. But his own quick jerk off sessions in the shower or the rare nights when he has thee time and energy to finger himself are nothing compared to how it feels to have Kuroo’s tongue cradle his dick, lips sucking gently, pulling up and off to he could lap at the tip, pepper kisses against the side. Of course, Kuroo makes a mess out of it, drooling freely, not shy at all about Kei’s own juices smearing on his cheeks and shin. 

He sucks hard on the base of Kei’s dick and the blonde muffles a groan, yanking hard on Kuroo’s bedhead. Kei pulls him closer, practically smashes Kuroo’s face into his cunt, and maybe that’s rude but Kuroo seems to love it. He hums, drops his jaw so his tongue can snake out and plunge deeper into Kei’s folds. The look on his face is blissful, like eating Kei out and sucking his dick in some abandoned storage closet is a dream he can’t believe he’s living. 

Kei shudders, tilts his head back against the wall, lets his eyes go unfocused as he tries very hard not to let any of the lewd noises bubbling in his throat escape. 

“Tsukki.” Kuroo pulls back just far enough to drag his tongue upwards through his weeping slit, gathering slick and drool and swirling it all around Kei’s pulsing erection. His voice is gravelly low and wrecked, and Kei is wrecked by it. “Fuck my face, baby.” 

_“Shit,”_ Kei hisses, jaw clenched. 

His hips need no more permission than that, snapping forward, dick slipping along Kuroo’s tongue. Swollen lips create the perfect wet channel for Kei to grind into. Each push against Kuroo’s mouth is messy, erotic, crackling as his dripping cunt smashes against his chin. Heat spreads through Kei’s core, flushed pink down his thighs, his shaky knees. 

His orgasm builds perfectly, every muscle wrenching tighter until the heat boils over and Kei rips his hands out of Kuroo’s hair to clamp across his mouth. He barely keeps the noises inside, his whole body shivering as he bucks against Kuroo’s mouth, grinning as he laps up Kei’s release. Long fingers glide along his slit, stroking him through the aftershocks.

Kei shoves him away, not unkindly, before Kuroo can consider a round two. “No, I’m — I’m good.” 

He can’t find the words for the rest of his thoughts, doesn’t yet have the brainpower to point out that he’s already soaked, there’s already fluids dripping down his thighs, if they go again he might get too sensitive, might completely ruin his underwear and he refuses to do a walk of shame back to his dorm with a conspicuous wet spot on his jeans. 

But Kuroo doesn’t push it, just leans back on his ankles with a feline grin, wiping the slick off his face with the back of his arm. If humans could purr, Kuroo would be, his contentment absolutely feline, eyes half-lidded and glowing with satisfaction. 

“I told you studying with me would be fun,” he teases. “Feel better?” 

Kei can’t answer that, so he doesn’t. “Are you…?” He gestures towards Kuroo’s lap. “Need me to finish you?” 

Those gunmetal eyes go soft. “You already did, darlin’.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Kei snaps without thinking. It’s too much, suddenly, to get his body back under control and also address the fact that Kuroo came in his pants, _untouched_ , just from going down on Kei. Just from having his hair pulled and letting Kei fuck his mouth. 

Kuroo rummages through the shelves and finds an opened pack of the brown scratchy paper towels found in all the campus restrooms. Kei takes on with a nod, cleans himself and fixes his pants and hopes the dimness is enough to hide the way his hands shake. 

“You okay?” 

“Of course.” 

Kuroo picks up his bag, shoulders it. “I’ll leave first. Wait a few and it should be safe to follow. Meet you downstairs?” 

“I’m fine, Kuroo. I...want to go back to my dorm.” 

The older man seems to debate something, the weight of his gaze heavy. He crouches back down, there’s some rustling, a zipper, and then Kuroo stands.

“I put my number on a post-it in your backpack. Just text me when you get back safely? Then you can rip it up.” Kuroo silences whatever protests brew in Kei’s mouth when he leans forward, cupping his face and planting a chaste and tender kiss on his forehead. “Thanks, Tsukki.” 

The heat of his nearness fades. The door clicks open. Kei flinches away from the light. Kuroo doesn’t linger, slips out and carefully closes the door as silently as possible behind him. The fuzzy warmth of orgasm and the jittery nerves of soft-of public intimacy, combined with the damp, cooling imprint of Kuroo’s mouth against his forehead — Kei feels very young, suddenly. Very young and very exposed. 

He counts one hundred heartbeats. One hundred and fifty heartbeats, and then he grabs his own bag and leaves. No one seems to mark his departure. The elevator is blessedly empty. 

Outside the sun is nearly gone and the chill of autumn bites through his jacket. His face and hands are pink and wind-bitten by the time he gets back to his dorm. 

The room is empty, his roommate absent. Kei shoves his dirty clothes in his hamper, pulls on clean underwear, and crawls in bed without showering. 

He hugs a pillow against his chest, presses his thighs together. 

Digs his face into the mattress and forgets Kuroo’s hands, forgets his tongue, forgets, forgets. 

  
  


#

  
  


The next day, he finds Kuroo’s number in his bag. Ten digits scrawled on a bright purple sticky note. Kei stands in his room, topless, pink from the shower, and debates throwing it away. He doesn’t owe Kuroo anything. But he thinks about Kuroo — annoying, how his morning starts off with that bedhead bastard occupying his thoughts — and begrudgingly acknowledges that it would be smart to have contact info for someone in his anthropology class, in case he has to miss a lecture and needs to copy someone’s notes. Would he rather interact with a stranger, or with Kuroo? 

His traitorous mind supplies memories of Kuroo at the net, the keen way he evaluated the opposing team. How persistently he shut down opposing spikers. 

He drafts a message, as formal as he can make it. 

**kei  
** I made it home safely last night  
I apologize if I worried you  
Thank you for your concern. 

Hitting send, he zips his phone in his bag and doesn’t check it again until after his morning lecture. 

**kuroo:**   
geez, tsukki  
what kind of monster would I be if I didn’t make sure my kouhai made it home okay?   
no need to be so polite 

**kei  
** technically you aren’t my senpai  
we’re in different programs 

**kuroo  
** I take it back  
polite is the wrong word   
have a good day, tsukki   
see you in class 

Kei keeps his distance. He’s not exactly rude about it, but all of Kuroo’s overtures of friendship — the lunch invitations, the suggestions of studying, meeting at the gym, joining a pick-up game with the local neighborhood association — are all met with firm refusal. Especially the invitations to play volleyball. 

If Kuroo has thoughts about his complete disinterest in the sport, he keeps them to himself. 

  
  


#

  
  


Kei keeps his distance, except when he doesn’t. 

They meet twice more, in the closet in the corner of the silent study floor. 

Once, when they bump into each other in the cafe on the first floor. Kuroo reaches over to wipe a bit of latte foam off Kei’s upper lip and somehow, that escalates to exchanging handjobs in the closet, kissing furiously until Kei prunes Kuroo’s fingers and Kuroo fills Kei’s palm with sticky heat. 

Twice, in a rare moment of weakness, after Kei barely survives a truly antagonizing meeting with his public communication project group. Kei summons Kuroo to the storage closet and keeps him there until the weight of Kuroo’s dick on his tongue wipes out the vexing memories and replaces them with a sore throat and an empty mind. 

Kuroo bites his fist and whines when he comes, whines louder when Kei swallows. 

That time, Kei collects himself and leaves first. Back at the dorm, he locks himself in the bathroom and spits mouthwash until the taste of Kuroo circles the drain. 

Drying his mouth on his sleeve, he stares himself down in the mirror. 

Mild swelling under his eyes. Chapped lips. The yellowed edge of a fading hickey creeping up his neck. Kuroo’s number in his phone. Kuroo’s groans in his ear. Taste, in his mouth. 

The lines between his daylight life and his midnight escapes are disappearing. 

Kei knows they should stop fucking. His body betrays him. 

But where does that leave them? 

He cannot unlearn the shape of Kuroo, the contours of his mouth. He cannot easily untangle his life from Kuroo, now that they share a class and their social circles seem to be slowly overlapping. And even if he could find the strength to ignore Kuroo for the rest of the semester until he can go home and sort himself out — 

Kei splashes cold water on his face. This was senseless. He rubs his skin too roughly with his hand towel, too angry at himself for being so indecisive. There is no way Kuroo wastes this much time thinking about Kei. 

Why is Kei the only miserable one? 

Kei is tired of questions he has no answers to. He folds his hand towel, dabs chapstick on his mouth, and turns the light out behind him.

  
  


#

Just because Kei doesn’t say anything to Yamaguchi, doesn’t mean Yamaguchi doesn’t bring it up. It’s a Friday night, and Kei is perhaps the only college sophomore studying alone in his dorm room. Even Yachi has plans with friends she met through bullet journaling. 

His phone flashes on the desk. 

**yamaguchi  
** what’s going on between you and kuroo? 

Kei blinks at his phone, setting down his pencil and hitting pause on his study playlist. He needs to handle this delicately. 

**kei  
** nothing

 **yamaguchi  
** really? 

**kei  
** yes

 **yamaguchi  
** he asked hajime about you

 **kei  
** Oh, is he officially ‘hajime’ now? 

**yamaguchi  
** don’t change the subject  
but also YES ٩ (◕‿◕｡) ۶  
pls act happy for me 

**kei  
** I am happy for you, dummy  
Kinda saw it coming

 **yamaguchi  
** what how!!!   
we were sneaky!!! 

**kei  
**...tell me again  
in specific detail  
about the VFX work in Godzilla: King of Monsters?   
a movie that you, yamaguchi tadashi  
paid to see three times

 **yamaguchi  
** ………  
okay, fair   
Also don’t! change! the subject!   
I know kuroo’s been trying to hang out with you   
and also asked hajime and daichi why u don’t play vb anymore  
but every time he is around you ignore him and make an excuse to leave 

**kei  
** it’s nothing 

**yamaguchi  
** r e a l l y   
(눈 _ 눈) 

**kei  
** yes

 **yamaguchi  
** final answer

 **kei  
** yes, yamaguchi

The chat goes silent. Kei watches his phone, dubious, for another minute before exhaling in relief. It takes him a moment to get back in the right headspace — music on, eraser nearby, Yachi-approved highlighters on standby — but he returns to his revisions peacefully. 

Until Yamaguchi _calls him._

Kei grits his teeth. Lets it go to voicemail. Yamaguchi calls again. Knowing this could continue all through the night, he answers. Yamaguchi launches immediately into a speech that sounds rehearsed. 

“I know I’m meddling, Tsukki, and you can hate me for it later, but I’m being a friend with your best interest in heart when I say that you should talk to Kuroo.” 

“I’m busy,” Kei says tightly. “Goodbye.” 

“Wait, Tsukki!” 

Sounds of a brief scuffle crackle through the phone. Kei sighs and waits, massaging his forehead, on the slim chance that Yamaguchi was kidnapped, or something, and he is about to learn details on his ransom. A kindness he regrets when one Iwaizumi Hajime speaks next, voice only recognizable from the many tapes of Seijoh games the team watched in high school. 

“Tsukishima-san, I apologize for butting into your business, but Tadashi is right. And Kuroo is my friend,” Iwaizumi says. In the background, Kei can hear Yamaguchi mutter something that sounds like _tell ‘em, babe_. “I can tell when he’s upset about something. Also...look, I grew up with a lot of stubborn idiots who refused to acknowledge their feelings, and — ” 

His grip on his phone tightens. “Are you calling me a stubborn idiot?” 

“Are you refusing to acknowledge your feelings?” 

More fumbling sounds, and Kei hears Yamaguchi say, “It’s okay, Haji, I’ll take it from here,” before his voice gets much clearer, and he continues, not unkindly. “Tsukki...I know you’re a Libra and it’s hard to focus on yourself, but maybe just — ”

Something snaps in his chest. 

“I have nothing to say to Kuroo Tetsurou,” Kei says brusquely. He stands up from his desk, agitated, abandoning his headphones by his laptop. “I don’t want to talk about this again.” 

If Yamaguchi has anything else to say, it’s lost when Kei hangs up. 

Embarrassment curdles his stomach, followed by a wash of restless energy and obstinance. Memories escape the box. He recalls another night, Yamaguchi yelling in his face. A gym in Tokyo, the cicadas, a palm pressed against his own. 

His best friend had been right — but that doesn’t make him right about this. Doesn’t give him permission to drag these skeletons out of the closet when he knows. He was there, last year, the summer before they moved to campus, when Kei rebuilt his entire vision for college to _not_ include Kuroo Tetsurou. 

Talk to Kuroo. Bullshit. That won’t solve anything.

An idea strikes him. 

He checks the time on his phone; it’s just after 10:00. Plenty of time. He can get dressed, get pretty. The good DJ goes on at midnight. Maybe someone new will buy him a drink. He can dance. 

Shed his skin. 

He has nothing to lose.   
  


#

  
  


It never feels like nighttime in Roppongi. Kei steps off the train close to midnight but the streets thrum with crowds and lights and shouting and music. The bits of sky visible between the roofs is smoggy grey, reflecting the light back down. It feels out of time, and anonymous. It welcomes Kei, like a nicotine-scented hug. 

It’s chilly enough to need a jacket but Kei opts for a sleeveless downy vest with a cinched waist and a fluffy faux fur collar. His arms are cold, but also, men like his arms, and Kei likes the look of surprise that flashes through their eyes when they grip his bicep and discover the wiry strength of his muscles. The black shirt underneath sculptes his chest, the short mesh sleeves make his arms look enticing, touchable. The denim leggings? Painted on his ass. The eyeliner, the gold shimmer rubbed across his cheeks and collarbones? Kei is not new at this. 

He knows how to make himself look dangerous but desirable. He knows how to make others want him. 

The bouncer must recognize him. Gives him a painfully heterosexual chin nod as he stamps Kei’s arm. 

Kei smirks, wondering how a straight guy got stuck on security as a gay bar. Maybe there was a mix up, maybe he saw the name _RAW_ and thought it was a different kind of club. Maybe he’s a chill dude and doesn’t give a shit, but that’s not as funny. Kei sniggers. He’ll have to remember this, tell Kuroo — 

Fuck. 

“One whiskey sour,” Kei orders, laying his card on the bartop. “I’ll open a tab.” 

“Whoa, hey now.” A tanned, attractive arm slides into view, attached to a tanned, attractive stranger who nudges Kei’s card away from the bartender. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t buy his own drinks.” 

The man grins, flashes his own card. An open invitation. Kei raises his brow and tilts his head. “Oh? I don’t take drinks from strangers.” 

This flusters the man, a little taken aback. The bartender slides Kei his drink, and the blond hides his sigh in his whiskey. It’s been a while since he had to train someone to flirt with him. But isn’t that what he’s here for? 

“You can dance with me, though,” he offers, looking down, then up through his lashes. Licks the whiskey off his lips, “and then we won’t be strangers.” 

The man’s face lights up, his eyes crinkling. And so, they dance. 

The man’s name is Kenta or Kenichi or something like that. He works in construction and he’s here for a few weeks on business. Kei thinks he’s a little boring but he has huge hands and he’s tall, tanned. Smells clean. A warm, solid wall for Kei to dance against. 

Not that he’s that friendly right out of the gates. 

It begins with a coy sway of the hips, sipping his drink and moving sinuously to the beat. 

When he can see the flush on Kenta-Kenichi’s neck, maybe Kei will slowly unzip his vest, watch with satisfaction as his partner’s eyes zero in on the pale inches of skin exposed where his shirt rides up his waist. He asks if he can buy Kei a drink and Key agrees readily, accepts another whiskey sour, accepts a martini the same color as his eyes. Lets Kenta-Kenichi drag him back to the bar for shots that travel so slowly down Kei’s esophagus it must light him up from the inside out, a small star illuminating his ribcage, his spine. 

Kenta-Kenichi asks if he can touch him, and Kei agrees, dragging him deeper into the mass of bodies, and then — then Kei can really lose himself. 

Bass vibrates through the floor, up his legs and into his hips as he grinds back against his partner. Those huge hands bracket his waist, thumbs nearly touching. The dance floor is dim and smokey and loud, an oblivion where Kei only has to writhe and float. Kenta-Kenichi is a considerate partner. He doesn’t touch Kei anywhere except his waist and hips, doesn’t put his hands anywhere Kei doesn’t guide them, content to grind back and roll his body along with Kei. At some point Kei fumbles for one of his hands and settles it firmly on his stomach, revels in the way Ken...tichi groans in his ear. 

It’s fantastic, flawless. _See,_ Kei wants to shout to the ceiling, _getting what you want doesn’t have to be complicated. This is what I want._

“Mind if I cut in?” 

Kei nearly loses his footing. 

The first night he saw Kuroo, he dressed dangerously. Tight, ripped pants and studded accents on his shirt and leather bracelets stacked up his arms. A poisonous fauna signalling his intent. Tonight he dresses plain but powerful: dark shirt, taut across the majestic line of his shoulders, darker pants and heavy boots that make his legs look even thicker in his wide, tense stance. A man who has no need to attract prey because the thing he wants is right in front of him. 

Dancing with someone else. 

Kentichi tightened his grip on Kei’s waist, enough to make him shift uncomfortably. “Can I help you with something, bro?” 

“Just wondering if I can talk to my friend for a minute, bro.” Kuroo pitches his voice to be audible above the music. He sounds pleasant, amicable, but the heated look in his eye is anything but. 

“I don’t think he wants to,” the man at his back starts to say. 

Kuroo cuts him off, eyes flashing. “Hey asshole, why don’t you let him speak?” 

“Kuroo,” Kei snaps, voice coming out high and unsure. The thrumming baseline jars through his chest. He can’t get enough air in his lungs. He grabs Kentichi ’s wrists and untangles himself from his sweaty grip. “Don’t pick fights with strangers. Let’s go.” 

Kuroo doesn’t budge, even when Kei steps away from his dance partner and draws even with him. He narrows his eyes at Kentichi, hands knotting into fists. 

Kei grabs his bicep and digs his nails in, relentless and unkind. “For fuck’s sake, Kurro,” he hisses. 

That breaks whatever alpha male spell enchants Kuroo. He doesn’t look at the admittedly bewildered Kentichi again, just rips his arm out of Kei’s grasp and stomps off the dance floor. He doesn’t drag kei along with him — perhaps he knows by now that Kei will follow. That whatever thing exists between them cannot be broken by a stranger’s hands. 

Kei fumes. It’s presumptuous. It’s arrogant. He should turn around and invite himself straight into Kentichi’s bed, get those huge warm hands all over him, mess up that black hair — 

_Oh._

Tall. Tanned. Big hands. Black hair. Kenta. Kenichi. Kuroo. 

“I cannot fucking believe you,” Kei says, outraged, when he finds Kuroo in a darker, quieter hallway between the main room and the restrooms. Kuroo paces like a caged jungle cat and Kei does not pull the punch he aims at his shoulder. “You have _no_ right.”

Anger and indignation fission through Kei. He’s so, so _furious_ — at himself, at Kuroo, at life for allowing such an atrocious series of coincidences to occur. _Of course_ Kuroo would find Kei, in this exact club on this exact night, grinding up against the off-brand version of himself. Shame twists through Kei’s stomach. He grits his teeth against the bile rising in his throat. 

Kuroo talks, has been talking. “I know that, I know we’ve never talked about,” he falters, running his hands through his own hair and tugging, “what we are, what we’re even doing with each other. But you’re so hard to read, Tsukki! I can’t figure you out at all.” 

“I’m not — I have nothing to hide!” 

Kuroo’s laugh is harsh and humorless. “Really? Tell me then, Tsukishima.” His full name sounds like spoiled food, the way Kuroo spits it out. “What exactly do you want from me?” 

His stomach drops to his feet. This is it. This is the conversation he would do anything to avoid. Panic pumps through his veins but he stands, frozen, mortified, as Kuroo moves closer. There is fury and hurt in his eyes, too. Kei can’t look away, can’t even speak, so Kuroo keeps talking. “Because I’m getting a lot of mixed signals here. Please enlighten me: do you even want to be friends? Am I just a good fuck to you?” 

When Kuroo reaches out to touch him, something snaps. Fear breaks through his paralysis, and Kei bolts. Down the hall, past the restrooms, to a side door that crashes loudly into the wall when he flings himself through. 

Out on the street, the lights are disorienting now. It’s rained, the pavement puddled and glossy wet, smeared with reflections of neon signs and orange streetlights. Kei feels for his glasses, to confirm they are still on his face. The ground and the buildings and the sky double and dance in his drunken daze. 

“Tsukki, shit, wait!” Kuroo follows him, catches him by the wrist. “Wait, you can’t -- you’re plastered. You can’t even walk straight.” 

Kei jerks his arm free, stumbling to correct his balance. He glares ferociously. “Don’t fucking touch me.” 

Kuroo looks different, outside of the dim club. More exhausted, more upset. He looks genuinely torn. Kei’s heart fractures in his chest. This would hurt less if Kuroo was mean, if he was a bad person. But Kuroo is so undeniably good when it matters. 

He listens, respects his wishes until Kei makes it out of the alley and onto the sidewalk and lists dangerously to one side. The ground spins and tilts. His stomach flips and he only narrowly avoids throwing up. Kuroo’s sturdy arms catch him around the shoulders before he can faceplant into the gutter. 

“Let’s sit down, at least, come on,” Kuroo says quietly. Kei is in no state to object. 

Kuroo guides him a short distance, then lowers him down. Kei collapses gracelessly onto a bench. The plastic surface is damp, soaks through his leggings. He leans forward, head between his knees, hands in his hair. He’s drunk and miserable, his desire to sink into the earth like a black hole in his chest, swallowing all his thoughts. 

“Kei,” Kuroo says, soft and pained. It lances through him, the _hurt_ in Kuroo’s voice. He’s crouches on his knees before the bench, hand stretching forward between them. Fingers brush his bangs off his sticky forehead. “You’re so lost in your head. What happened? Why do you look so scared when you see me?” 

“What happened?” Kei repeats, laughs wetly. “You _left._ You went to America.” Thoughts, arguments come to his head out of order, but he does his best to breathe through his dizziness and only slur some of his words. “And I’m not lost in my head. You’re in my head. I know where I am, I just don’t want to fucking be here because — ” 

He inhales, heaves in great gulps of air. His cheeks feel wet. Kuroo strokes his hair. 

“You can tell me,” Kuroo begs. “I’m your friend.” 

Kei shoves his hand away. “I don’t want to be your friend!” 

It hurts, it hurts, unearthing the words. Like hammering a tap through his own breastbone and letting the raw truth ooze out like syrup. 

“I don’t know what I want, Kuroo,” he sobs, “except that’s a lie, because I want _you._ I _missed_ you. I spent a whole year getting you out of my head. But now you’re back, and I fucked it all up, and I want you.” 

“Oh, Kei,” Kuroo whispers. 

He reaches out again, and Kei reaches back. Kuroo wraps him up, pulls him into his chest until Kei is on the ground too, sprawled in his lap. “Come here. I’ve got you, moonbeam. I’ve got you now.” 

Something wet splashes down Kei’s jaw. He wipes at his cheeks but he’s crying too hard, so he gives in. Leans all his weight into Kuroo, hides his face against his neck, and lets the agony out. 

Strong arms hold him through it. Warm hands rub his back. Kei holds, and lets himself be held. 

Eventually, he becomes aware that they are still in public. A more sober version of himself would be humiliated by his lack of control, by such a public unraveling. In this timeline, Kei is still drunk, and wrung out and tired. 

He sniffs and rubs his snotty chin against Kuroo’s shirt. “Wanna go home.” 

The arms squeeze him gently. “Okay.” 

There is some maneuvering as Kuroo digs out his phone and orders a cab. Then again, as he hoists Kei to his feet and lets him lean against Kuroo for balance. Kuroo talks the whole time, gently narrating. “Good, can you stand like that for me? I think that’s our ride. Let me help you with your seatbelt.” 

He speaks to the driver, and Kei slides down until his forehead presses against the cold window. Kuroo holds his hand, rubs tender circles on his wrist with his thumb. The ride is long but silent; exactly what Kei needs. He breathes, in and out, and by the time the cab pulls up to the curb, he’s stopped hiccupping, his eyes raw but dry, pulse less frantic. 

Kuroo helps him out, leads him inside with an arm around his shoulder. They step into an elevator. It isn’t until they pause outside a door while Kuroo fiddles with his keys that Kei recognizes the hallway, the ugly carpet. 

Home. Kei asked to go home, and Kuroo brought him to his apartment. 

“Thank you,” Kei murmurs, and means it. 

Kuroo gestures him into the dark, quiet entryway. “I figured you would want somewhere more private than your dorm.” 

“I don’t know what I want,” Kei reminds him. His filter is completely absent and he is too tired to rebuild it. Might not want to — he thinks of the way Kuroo held him, on the wet sidewalk, the affectionate way he said _Kei_. 

It’s similar to the way he looks at Kei now. Like Kei, drunken hot mess Kei, is worth looking at. 

“Do you want to shower?” Kuroo asks. He flips on the light above the stove and fills a glass with water. “You can borrow something to change into.” 

Kei takes the water, cradles the chilled glass against his palms. His voice wavers. “I apologize for the intrusion.” 

“Hey now, I brought you here!” Kuroo laughs, covering Kei’s hands with his own and lifting the cup to his lips. “Stop apologizing and drink your water.” 

“Rude,” Kei sputters against the rim, but drinks. 

Hands move to his hair, tucking messy waves behind his ears, nudges his glasses. Kuroo smiles at him, still exhausted but...lighter, than before. “I’m sorry, Kei. I really screwed things up, with you. And no, stop, we are not going to stand here and host the Poor Choices Olympics,” he says firmly when Kei starts to object. “You are going to shower, and then you can sleep. We can talk in the morning.” 

Kei pouts, mulish, but any desire to object sputters and dies. His feet ache in his boots. His skin feels tacky, like the club and the alcohol are stuck in his pores. Blurry memories of the other man, not-Kurro, and his hands on Kei’s skin — 

“Shower sounds nice,” Kei admits. 

Kuroo takes his empty glass, strokes his hair one last time, and shows him to the bathroom. 

It’s small: a sink, some shelves, a standing shower only. That’s fine; his body feels so heavy that he might drown in a bath. Kuroo points out how to adjust the temperature, grabs him a stack of towels, and leaves him in peace. 

Kei makes the water as hot as he can stand, and stays there until it nauseates him. He does get sick, finally, stumbling out of the shower stall and making it to the trash bin before his stomach heaves everything up. It’s horrible — he hates getting sick — but he feels better after, and goes back to the running water, and lets it soothe away the rest of his aches until his whole body is filled with white noise. 

He could sleep like this. Could close his eyes, and float backwards in time, to the day Kuroo said _catch you later_. Could say then what he couldn’t say until tonight.

Could, but can’t. Instead he shuts off the water, steps out to dry himself. Finds a second stack on the counter. Kuroo must have snuck in, and left him clothes, a fresh glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. The clothes are clean and soft: sleep pants that are loose around the thighs but short around his ankles, and a worn shirt. They smell faintly like lilacs. 

When Kei steps out of the bathroom, the apartment is dark except for a light and noise coming from the room to the right. Kuroo’s bedroom, where Kuroo is in the middle of shoving a pillow into its case. 

“Hey. Feel better?” Kei nods. Kuroo’s grin is filled with relief. “I changed the sheets. You take the bed.” 

Kei rubs at his chest, where his heart feels raw. He chews on his thoughts until Kuroo steps past him, like he’s going to leave the room. “I want you to stay.” 

Too many emotions flicker through Kuroo’s eyes for him to follow. “I don’t mind the couch,” Kuroo says, a little stilted, like that isn’t what he actually wants. 

“Kuroo,” Kei sighs. He rolls his eyes and feels more like himself than he has in hours. “You are very noble, but I...I just want…” 

He trails off, huffs in frustration. All those _words_ earlier and now he’s stuttering like a middle schooler, brain filled with cottony fatigue. 

Warm arms -- Kuroo hugs him, buries his nose in Kei’s hair and inhales. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only because you smell like me.” 

“‘s weird.” 

“Yeah, well.” Kuroo shrugs, and he can feel him smile against his hair. “You like it.” 

Kei doesn’t respond as he steps away, waddles to the bed, but the flush on his cheeks is answer enough.

The bed is a double. A good thing, as neither of them are small men. By the time Kuroo clicks off the lamp, they’ve managed an arrangement that leaves all their limbs on the mattress but not much space between them. They shift around in the dark, adjusting. Kuroo’s knee touches his thigh, their toes brush. Kei buries his face in the pillow and feels all the tension in his muscles drain away to the sound of Kuroo’s slow, unhurried breaths. 

Kei shuts his eyes. He takes a deep breath of his own, allows himself to acknowledge that he admitted those _things_ to Kuroo, and tomorrow when he is less of a corpse they will have to talk about them, but for now — he said the words. 

Kuroo listened, and brought Kei to his apartment, and stayed when he asked. 

Lilac detergent soothes his senses. Unconsciousness lifts him like an ocean wave, and pulls him serenely out to sea. Kei drifts. 

  
  


#

  
  


Kei wakes slowly, rising out of a deep and dreamless sleep. The bedroom is blue-grey and hushed. A window on the far war admits slated beams of early morning sun through gaps in the blinds. Outside, there are birds. Distant traffic. The shuffling of neighbors in the apartment above. 

A body shifts beside him. A sleep-warm leg nudges his own. 

Kei rolls over, and Kuroo is there. 

He’s sprawled on his back, one arm tucked behind his head. His face is turned towards Kei, soft and open in sleep. 

Briefly, he debates leaving. It would be doable: slipping out of bed, finding his glasses and clothes. He knows this neighborhood well enough, knows where to buy cheap coffee and catch a bus back to campus. 

But Kuroo stayed. 

Kei is scared. But he watches the slow rise and fall of Kuroo’s chest and thinks it wouldn’t be bad if he stayed, too. 

There is something so disarming about Kuroo, like this. Maybe it’s creepy to think that. Kei moves without doing much thinking, touching his middle finger very lightly to Kuroo’s smooth forehead and tracing down the side of his face. Along his cheekbones, across his eyebrow. When he brushes past his slack mouth, a tongue flicks out and licks him, and Kuroo cracks open an eye. 

“Hey you,” he croaks with a slow, sleepy grin. 

It sounds so intimate, Kei feels his ears grow hot. But he doesn’t look away. Lets his hand slide down to rest against his neck. Leans forward, before he chickens out, and presses his mouth to Kuroo’s. 

The man beside him stays still until Kei pulls away. Hazel meets gold, and whatever Kuroo finds in Kei’s vulnerable gaze makes him whimper. He chases after Kei, catches his retreating face and guides their lips back together. 

It’s unhurried. Chaste. They drift together beneath the warm weight of the duvet, stomach to stomach, mouths rubbing, languid and gentle. When they part, they stay close, Kuroo mapping kisses across his cheeks and jawline until they end up nose to nose.

“Hey,” Kei whispers in return. 

“How ya feeling?” Propped up on his elbow, half on Kei’s chest, Kuroo takes his own turn skimming fingers along Kei’s jaw, up to his ear and into his hair, fluffier and more curled than usual from neglecting to dry it before bed. 

Kei swallows, licks his own lips and tastes Kuroo on them. Remembers the club, the drinks, the other bodies against him. Yelling, the smell of rain. “A lot happened.” 

“I never said, but….” Kuroo takes hand, anchors them together. His brow doesn’t furrow but his eyes dart between Kei’s mouth, his hand, the puffy skin beneath his eyes. “I want you too.” 

It’s too much. Kei turns his face away, rubs his cheek against his pillow. “Do you?” 

The grip on his hand tightens. “Look at me, Tsukishima Kei.” It takes a few fortifying breaths, but Kei looks, and his eyes widen. Kuroo is more serious than he’s ever seen before. “Yes. _Yes._ Of course I want to be with you.” 

When did his eyes get so wet? Kei blinks until his eyes clear, solitary tears creeping down his cheeks. “We really fucked this up.” 

Kuroo leans forward and kisses him, intently enough that he flops onto his back, hands coming up to grip Kuroo’s shirt. Their lips slide together, mouthing at each other, trading damp breaths and teasing nips until Kuroo pulls away. 

“Does that feel fucked up to you?” 

Kei stares at him, chews nervously on his lip. Kissing Kuroo feels perfect, feels like the most normal thing he’s ever done, but those are things Kei can say out loud yet. 

“I cut a lot of people off, you know,” Kurro continues. “When I left, I...don’t think I could have gotten on the plane if I — if I thought that you were waiting for me. I would have sprinted off the tarmac.” 

“That’s foolish,” Kei says, aiming for admonishing but sounding so fond it makes his throat tight. 

“I know.” Kuroo grins, sheepish. “I don’t regret going. It was a good opportunity, a good program. I don’t regret studying abroad. Just, how I handled it?” He softly strokes a knuckle along Kei’s cheek. “I hate that I hurt you.” 

“I hurt you too.” Kei cranes his neck, bites sternly at Kuroo’s wandering fingers. “Why didn’t you say anything? When you got back?” 

A huge slow breath escapes Kuroo, fluttering his bangs. “I hoped we could become friends again. For once, though...I really didn’t know what to say. How was I supposed to start a conversation like that?” 

The wistful expression, the yearning in those grey eyes. It stuns Kei, to think that he and Kuroo might have longed for each other in the same ways. Unsent emails, writing and rewriting texts only to delete them. Thinking of each other, or trying desperately not to think of each other, in the same city, mere miles apart. 

Kuroo keeps talking, a warm smirk curling across his face. “That first night? I never expected to see you _there_. You’re so stunning, Tsukki. You made me so — I wanted whatever you would let me get away with. I felt like such a thirsty bitch. So I told myself I would follow your lead. Only what you wanted.” 

A disbelieving chuckle bubbles out of Kei. He cannot fucking believe this. When did his life become such a backwards love story? “We are very dumb,” he grumbles. He knows he should apologize too, can’t remember if he already did last night — and god, a drunken confession? On the street? 

“Hey,” Kuroo says, frowning. He sneaks a hand down to Kei’s ribs and pinches his side. “You’re thinking too hard again.” 

The pinch tickles more than hurts, but Kei squawks in protest, swatting Kuroo’s hands away. After a moment of wrestling, Kei grabs both sides of his face and tightens his grip, guiding Kuroo to meet his gaze. 

“Will you forgive me?” he asks, filling his eyes with truthful sincerity. 

Kuroo softens. “Yes. Will you forgive me?” 

“Hmmm.” Kei pouts, scrunches up his nose. “You did use my first name last night. It’s rude to do that without asking.” 

“I suppose you’ll want to get even,” Kuroo mulls, eyes twinkling. He grins, flutters his eyelashes prettily. “Go on.” 

For the first time, it’s hard to keep his emotions off his face. But how could he not be happy, with the sun rising in his chest? 

“You’re an asshole, Tetsurou.” He curls up to kiss Kuroo’s nose. “I like you, Tetsurou.” 

Kuroo huffs as though wounded, but his face is bright, worshipful. He crawls fully on top and smothers Kei with his weight and Kei melts into the bed. This kiss is not chaste, it’s deep and consuming. Kuroo’s tongue spills into his mouth, licks and sips all the remaining worry and doubt from his bones. Dawn breaks in Kei’s heart. He grips Kuroo tighter, closer, and moans into his mouth. 

Gradually, it slows down. They part for air, lips pink and damp. 

“If I was a gracious host, I would offer you coffee. Maybe an omelet,” Kuroo says lowly. There’s a hunger in his eyes and it isn’t for food. 

Kei shifts his hips, feels the warm stiffness of Kuroo’s half-chub against his thigh. Kei can empathize. He’s ravenous, and the only thing he wants is right here in his hands. 

“You, gracious? No need to pretend on my account.” He rasps, and pulls Kuroo’s mouth back down. 

The older man hums happily, kisses his bottom lip, his cupid’s bow, the corner of his mouth, his chin. They roll sideways until they face each other, clicking together like puzzle pieces, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. 

Kuroo smoothes a hand up his spine, the borrowed shirt gathers on his wrists. Clever fingers trace along Kei’s spine as a clever tongue pets across his gums, drags along teeth and the ridges of his hard palette. The kiss gets wet, clear spit leaking down their chins. Kei moans and squirms closer, shoves a leg between Kuroo’s and humps the growing heat at his core against Kuroo’s thigh. The other man groans, grips tighter, kisses deeper, until they are both dizzy from lack of air. 

“Just to clarify,” Kuroo gasps, panting against his mouth. “You want — ?”

“Fuck me or I’m leaving.” 

“Bossy, bossy.” 

To Kei’s disgruntlement, Kuroo pulls back and sits up, shoving off the layers of blanket. It’s not cold in his apartment but the sudden lack of body heat makes him shiver. Kuroo pouts and tugs childishly at Kei’s bottoms until the blond clicks his tongue and obligingly raises his hips. They steal kisses as they undress each other, licking and pinching new bits of skin. Kuroo shrieks when Kei shoves his tongue behind his ear and retaliates by sucking a red mark behind his knee. 

And then Kuroo is naked, and Kei is naked. They kneel across from each other on the messy nest of bedsheets, pinked and grinning and breathless. 

The lighthearted mood melts into something sweeter. Kei has seen Kuroo but now he _looks_ — here, like this, in the morning quiet striped with sunlight, cowlicks curled chaotically in every direction, Kuroo is the most devastating sight he’s ever seen. 

A similar reverence burns in Kuroo’s eyes. He reaches out like he fears Kei will vanish. Like his fingers might pass right through him. Kei grabs his hand and holds it against his chest, above his heart. He gets it, he _really_ gets it. 

“You’re so beautiful, Kei,” Kuroo whispers. “Come here?” 

Kei scrambles forward, wraps his arms around Kuroo’s shoulders. There’s a lot of limb between the two of them but amidst more hungry kisses they sort out their legs. Kei tucks his around Kuroo’s sides while he is cradled in the bowl of Kuroo’s lap. Maybe his knees end up bumping Kuroo’s biceps and maybe it takes a moment for Kuroo to adjust his feet so his heels don’t dig into Kei’s ass, but — it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a sprint to the finish, a hookup with a singular goal. This is just Kei and Kuroo — Kuroo, golden and lean and solid, warm under his palms as Kei pets through the fuzz on his thighs. 

He could kiss Kuroo for hours. It’s addictive, the give and take of their mouths. He loves the simple kisses best, just lips brushing, pressing and peeling apart. Kuroo snags his bottom lip and rolls it between his teeth, yanking a ragged gasp out of Kei. It stings but it’s so good. 

This position, the wide angle of his thighs to accommodate all of Kuroo between them, has his folds spread and twitching. Slick drips onto the sheet beneath them. Kei reaches down, grabs Kuroo’s erection and presses it up against his stomach. Precum smears sticky trails on the taut skin beneath his naval. Kei grinds forward against him, hips jerking, whining when their dicks touch. The pronounced vein on the underside of Kuroo’s cock makes him shudder as it rubs against him. 

“Shit, baby.” Kuroo bites harder at his lips. Hands grab his ass, drag him closer as a mouth trails down his neck and sucks at his pulse, the thin skin of his collarbones. Tomorrow he’ll be covered in love bites, and instead of embarrassment he will feel smug. 

Kei finds Kuroo’s nipples and tugs, twists the nubs until they pebble and Kuroo groans. More precum leaks down his shaft, mixes with the honeyed slick spilling steadily from inside Kei. 

Pleas, praises, words — there are so many things Kei would say, if he had enough air in his lungs. He rests his forehead on Kuroo’s shoulder, gasping against his skin. He’s so wet. Kuroo is so stiff and red against him. Kei looks down between their chests to watch Kuroo’s thickness slide between his lips. Precum puddles around the slit, spills out when Kei’s rocking movements roll the foreskin farther down. 

“Condom?” Kei asks. He’s ready, he’s so ready. 

Kuroo licks at a purpling hickey on his shoulder. “M’ not done yet.” 

Kei digs his nails into his back and whines. _“Please.”_

“Shit.” Kuroo manhandles him onto his back, kisses his way down his chest. Hands catch his thighs and settle them on his shoulders. “Nightstand.” 

Twisting, Kei yanks open the drawer and digs until he feels out a cardboard box. He throws a foil packet at Kuroo’s head and gets a feline grin in return. 

“Needy!” 

“I’m _ready.”_

Kuroo ignores him, sucks a love bite on his hip. “I still jack off thinking about the day I went down on you. Can’t get your taste out of my mind.” He exhales hotly onto Kei’s swollen dick. 

Kei grabs at his hair, sinks his fingers into that ridiculous bedhead, chanting, “Yes, yes, yes, Kuroo.” 

The bastard pauses, taunts. “My name, Kei.” 

He blushes deep and hot. His dick aches. “Tetsurou.” 

Kuroo swears, and dives down. He licks his way down to his entrance, sucks at his puffy lips. Moans as slick wets his tongue. “Goddamn best thing I’ve ever tasted. You are so soft down here. Gonna be so wet for me.” 

Kei groans, tries to grind up against his mouth, impatient. His head is thrown back against the pillows, blond curls a sunlit halo around his face. “Please, please.” 

He gives Kei a finger, up to the knuckle, rubbing at his walls. Soon there are two, scissoring and stretching. They curl upwards and find the spot that makes him mewl, makes his cunt flutter and dribble. 

“Tetsurou, _hnnnn fuck_ , Tetsurou, _Tetsu_ — ” he pants, jerks with Kuroo sucks at his dick. His thighs shake, his core heats and tightens. Kei shuts his eyes, whines — 

Kuroo pulls off. 

Kei gasps in desperate outrage. He curls up, claws at Kuroo’s head, tries to drag him back. “No no no, fuck, _please!”_ he begs, until he meets Kuroo’s eyes and his words dry up. 

Kuroo prowls up the bed, covering his body with his own muscled form. His eyes are nearly black with desire, mouth pruned and supple with slick. He nudges his way into the cradle of Kei’s hips, then pauses. Fingers find Kei’s dick and tug, drawing him back to the brink of orgasm and then — 

Kuroo fucks into him. Kei comes. 

_“Fuck!”_

His keen is only matched by Kuroo’s deep, gravely moan. Kuroo feels impossibly large, wide and unyielding inside his spasming cunt. It’s so much, all at once, empty to full, calm to electrified before he can catch his breath. 

“Gorgeous,” Kuroo groans as he begins to roll his hips, each thrust an intoxicating fight to escape Kei’s tight hole before fucking back in. “Makes me fucking _feral,_ sweetheart. Gonna take you apart.” 

Kei shuts him up with an angry kiss, licking his own salty musk out of Kuroo’s mouth. The other man hooks his thighs over his elbows, licks at his mouth fondly before sitting back. Now he is too far away to kiss but the picture he paints: broad shoulders, solid waist, flushed down his neck and chest, face pinched in pleasure, the whole of him edged in sunlight. It’s something holy, something Kei would pilgrimage to witness. 

This angle lets Kuroo aim his thrusts right into Kei’s pleasure spot, the head of his dick dragging across it. It stokes the burning in his belly, pushing him higher, a steady and relentless climb back to the top.

Kei burns, _burns_. He reaches for Kuroo, fumbling for his skin. He sweats and moans, his breaths hitched and wet. “Tetsu, I’m — ” 

He shakes, hides his face beneath his arm like he can hide from this sensation. Too much heat, too much electricity in his heart. 

Kuroo grabs behind his knees and leans down, spreads him wider and hits so deep Kei can taste it. They are chest to chest, belly to belly, Kei’s knees almost to his shoulders. All he can feel is Kuroo, above him, inside him. A mouth finds his ear and bites the lobe. “Don’t fight it, sweet thing. Let it happen. You don’t have to earn this. It’s already yours. I’m _yours.”_

When his orgasm hits, Kei cries out and bucks against Kuroo’s hold. Tears spill out of the corner of his eyes. Air hisses through his clenched teeth. Kuroo nudges aside his arm and rains kisses across his face. He doesn’t stop, but he slows down to a deep grind. As though Kei needs the reminder, as if he could forget how deep Kuroo is, how soaked and stretched his cunt feels. The damp spot spreading up the sheets against his back is testament to that. 

“Perfect, _good,_ you’re so good. Let me see you, wanna see you,” Kuroo slurs. They roll — well, Kuroo rolls and Kei goes with him until he’s swaying on Kuroo’s lap, leaning on his chest for balance. Kuroo reaches down and slides his cock back in. They both moan at how easy it is, how loose Kei is. Faintly, Kei is amazed that Kuroo is still hard, still so steely thick inside him, but he can’t hold onto his thoughts for more than a second before they fizzle out. 

Warm hands find his hips, gently encouraging him to move. Kei whimpers. He wants to make Kuroo feel good, wants to see his face when he comes inside him, but his legs are shaking too badly. Two previous orgasms liquified his joints. He isn’t sure he can come again, but he tries — groans and rocks his hips back and forth at a halting, inconsistent pace. 

“Tetsurou, _talk,”_ he begs. “Please.” 

Kuroo’s eyes shine. He gets his hands on Kei’s hips, helps him build a rhythm. Opens his mouth and pours out love, pure love. 

“Beautiful, sweetheart, you are doing _so_ well, can’t believe how perfect you feel around me. Can’t believe you’re still so _tight._ Love you on top of me like this, you look like an angel, baby, with the sun all over you. Goddamn, _baby,_ keep going, please, roll those pretty hips. I want you to come for me, want you to come apart.” 

Kei shakes and shakes. Kuroo thrusts up, and the world whites out. 

He clamps down, muscles squeezing, wringing pleasure out of his bones and mercilessly milking Kuroo. The man beneath him shouts, grinds deep and freezes. Kei blinks dots out of his eyes in time to see Kuroo’s face twist up in ecstasy. 

He can’t hold himself up, collapses down on Kuroo’s chest, cheek on his shoulder. Lets himself work through the aftershocks as Kuroo’s dick pulses and spills into the condom. 

Hands stroke up and down his back, tracing mindless patterns through the film of sweat on his skin. Kei makes no effort to move or clean himself of the mess drying tacky between their legs and stomachs. If he’s cemented to Kuroo with their own sexual fluids, well — there are probably worse things. 

Lips find his forehead, kiss lazily along his hairline. “You’re wonderful.” 

“Nnnh,” Kei grunts. 

“Did I break you?” 

“D’n be smug.” 

He feels Kuroo’s wide grin against his hair and doesn’t have to look up to know how satisfied it must be. They stay there, breathing in sync, until Kei’s stomach suddenly grumbles. 

“Omelets now,” he pouts, nosing into Kuroo’s chest. 

Fingers dance up his back, trace a heart across his shoulder. “You’ll really let me cook for you?”

Kei blushes, and sighs, turns his face and hides a contented smile of his own. “I suppose that would be fine.” 

  
  


#

  
  


_Two weeks later._

“Tsukki!” 

Looking up from his phone, Kei spies Kuroo jogging across the quad towards him, waving his hand cheerfully above his head. The trees are orange and gold above them. It’s chilly all the time now. Kei buries his face deeper into his scarf and inhales lilac detergent. 

Kuroo slings an arm around his shoulders, smacking a kiss on his forehead. He isn’t shy about public displays of affection, much to Kei’s exasperation. He’s a private person. Also, Kuroo has the infuriating ability to make him blush. 

“Man, that test was hard,” Kuroo grumbles as they fall into step, leaving the social sciences building behind. Nowadays they spend Kei’s break together, finding a table on the second floor of the student union, where they can share earbuds and hook their ankles together as they study. 

Kei jabs him with his elbow. “It was not hard. You’re just unmotivated.” 

“Maybe if I had a nice, sexy tutor….” 

“No.” 

“Motivate me, Tsukki ~ ”

They pause at the crosswalk. Kuroo shoves his hands into his own pockets, breath coming out in faint white puffs. “Are you busy this weekend?” 

Kei side-eyes him. “Depends.” 

“Rude!” Kuroo laughs, then grows bashful. He’s so handsome when he blushes. “Bokuto sent me comp tickets for his next game. I thought we could go together. It’s in Osaka, though, so we’d have to stay the night.” 

The light changes, the crosswalk begins its countdown. Kuroo tangles their hands together and Kei lets himself be guided across the street. “I don’t know, Kuroo,” he says dryly, “it’s very improper to share a hotel room with someone you just started dating.” 

Kuroo laughs, loud and happy. He stops Kei with a hand on his arm and pulls him off the sidewalk and kisses him, quick but sweet. He tastes like old coffee and toothpaste. 

“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” Kuroo promises against his lips. 

Kei pulls back, huffs fondly. “We’ve already done everything in the wrong order anyway.” 

“So you want to go?” 

“Yes.” 

“Perfect,” Kuroo purrs, and kisses him one more time before continuing towards the student union, talking excitedly about Osaka, about famous ramen shops and museums they could visit with Bokuto and Akaashi. 

Kei follows him, his heart is an untroubled, fluttering thing in his chest. 

Maybe in Osaka he will tell Kuroo that he loves him. 

It’s a lot to say. It’s only been two weeks — or has it been four years? 

Their history is a messy thing, and Kei is daunted by the task of communicating the adoration he feels for this man out loud, but — he has time. If not Osaka, later. 

He can find the words. 

  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this story was truly a monster. and it probably could have been twice as long and fleshed out even more of tsukki's year without kuroo, but...I just...wanted to write porn....
> 
> so maybe I will never be completely pleased with this one. but thank YOU so much for reading! comments and kudos always appreciated. this author responds to comments. <3 
> 
> join me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/greenywrites)


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